I Missed You
by bilboluckwearer
Summary: It's been a year, but John can't bring himself to forget the man who changed his life. Sherlock wants to return, and when something happens to his blogger, he can no longer stand to keep on hiding. J/S slash, Post-Reichenbach  I suck at summaries.


**A/N: Oh dear. This is my first Sherlock fic, so the characters may be ooc. I consumed the series over the past few days (wouldn't have taken so long if my download was faster…) and I think I'll have to re-watch it before I can write them accurately. Anyway, this is another post-Reichenbach fic. Sherlock/John. Reviews are appreciated! **

John Watson sat at the kitchen table of his flat on 221 Baker Street. There had been a time when it wasn't just his flat, but that was a long time ago. It would be a year in just a few days, actually. He shifted in his seat, simply staring at the two cups of tea seating in front of him. John always made two… just in case Sherlock were to come running through the door again, just as he used to. A part of him knew it wasn't healthy for him to do this, but it helped him to maintain that bit of normalcy from before the fall. ('Although,' he supposed, 'Life was never really normal with Sherlock.')

Thinking about Sherlock as much as he did probably wasn't good for him either. All it did was cause him pain, but he was afraid of forgetting. He was afraid of forgetting the way he wrapped his scarf, liked his coffee, and the look on his face when he was deducting. So he thought of him, and it was something he did not regret doing. Even though it hurt, he was proud that he had not forgotten anything about the man whom he had grown to become the very best of friends with. He sat at the table for a few more minutes, when his stomach grumbled. He then remembered that he had forgotten to do the shopping, meaning there was once again no food.

He heaved a great sigh, and donned a tan coat and grabbed his wallet. He had skipped breakfast, and was craving toast with jam. Lots of jam. He walked downstairs, giving Mrs. Hudson a friendly smile before departing. She returned it, although she could see that it hadn't reached his eyes. Very, very few of his smiles had in the past year.

After John had closed the door, he happened to glance down at the ground and noticed his shoe was untied.

Now, some people say, there is a result caused by everything that we do in our life. Every tiny gesture has the potential to lead to something bigger. If John had not looked down at his shoe, he would have walked to the store, as per usual, and probably wouldn't have noticed until it got caught on a shopping cart, or something of the like. However, he did, and this lead to him crouching down and tying his shoe. It only took a few seconds, but those few seconds could have made all the difference.

If he had simply walked down the stairs, across the street, and onto the store, the car would have come speeding by right after he'd crossed. But John Watson did stop to tie his shoe, and because he took those few seconds to do so, rather than walking across the street like he always did, the car met him in the middle of the street with an unceremonious 'thud.'

And there John Watson lie in the middle of the street, barely breathing with a body of broken bones. Onlookers on the sidewalk watched in shock as the driver of the car rode away in a panic. All at once several people were calling for an ambulance and rushing to his assistance.

"Get out of my way!" A man shouted, bumping his way through the crowd of people. To those in the crowd, he was rather funny looking. His head was a mop of dark curly hair, and his face was nearly all cheekbones. The man's eyes darted over John's broken body, saying quickly to whomever was listening. "He's got a broken femur, three broken ribs, and a severe blow to the head. Definitely a concussion. This man needs to get to a hospital. Now." The person whose call had gone in first relayed the message without question, giving the address of the accident.

The man held John Watson's face in his hands, urging him to stay awake.

"Listen to me John. You have the strength and willpower to make it through this. You have to stay awake until the paramedics arrive. You are not going to die, I will not allow that to happen."

John's eyes stung from the blood that was escaping the wound in his head. He had a look of confusion and pain upon his face.

"Sh- Sher… lock? Am I- have I died then?" He asked, and Sherlock shook his head vigorously.

"Of course you're not dead you idiot, did you not hear a single word I just said? You are alive, and you are going to stay that way." He insisted, eyes red around the edges. "I won't let you die."

"You… died." John whispered. "You. Are. Dead." He clenched his teeth in pain and looked up at Sherlock with a look of both anger and hurt. "I had no say in that-" He gasped, "Did I?"

An ambulance rode up then, a team of paramedics rushing out towards John. The crowd cleared, and Sherlock was forced to stand up and give them the room to collect John and take him to the hospital.

"Wait!" John cried. "Sherlock!" The doors to the ambulance shut and it sped away, taking the injured man to the hospital. Sherlock breathed a huge sigh of relief. He would live.

Sherlock Holmes was not an easy man to scare. Scaring him was not something that happened often. This managed to do it, though. He stumbled towards the curb and sat down so he could compose himself. His whole body had been shaking, for fear of losing John. His reputation? He didn't care about that. His life? It didn't bother him as much as one might think. But if there was one thing Sherlock could not stand to lose, it would have to be his blogger, John Watson.

After he had calmed himself down, he stood up, running his hands through his hair. He knew for sure that John would live- but would he be okay? Would he be paralyzed? Would he fall into a coma? He cursed. He would not be able to wait and find out. He hailed a taxi, ordering to be driven to St Bartholomew's Hospital.

~221B~

Molly Hooper was roused from her boredom by an insistent knocking on the door to the morgue. Rather than waiting to be let in, Sherlock bounded in, much to the surprise of Molly.

"Sherlock? What are you doing here? I thought the whole point of me helping you die was for people to think you were dead? I mean, I'm glad to see you, of course," She stuttered, blushing a bit, "But what on earth are you doing?"

"I need your help again Molly." He insisted, his eyes having a crazed look about them. His hair was in a complete disarray, and his shirt was rumpled. Molly looked at him with worry. She didn't recall ever seeing Sherlock so… messy.

"What's wrong?" She asked, genuine worry in her voice.

"John's been in an accident and I need to see him. Now."

Molly blanched, face full of concern. "An accident? What happened? Is he okay?" Sherlock made a gesture for her to shut it.

"I think he's okay, but I just have to be sure." He insisted, his voice quavering slightly. "I just have to be sure."

Molly eyed him, a knowing look on her face. "If you've already come to the conclusion that he's okay, why risk blowing your cover by visiting him?"

Sherlock swallowed, not having an answer. Molly continued. "You care about him a lot… don't you?" Again, he stayed silent. Molly dropped her gaze for a moment, and then looked up at him again. "Answer me this, Sherlock. If it… if it had been me, or Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade would you blow your cover to check on us?" More silence.

She nodded, a sort of bittersweet smile upon her face. "I'll take you to see him."

Sherlock smiled the smallest of smiles, and then embraced her in a crushing hug.

"Thank you."

~221B~

Sherlock Holmes sat in the darkened hospital room, the moonlight straying in through the window and falling on John's sleeping face. It slightly unsettled Sherlock to see his John looking so frail. His right leg was in a cast, and his torso and head were both wrapped in bandages. His condition was stable, and it wouldn't be too long before he could return to 221 B.

It had been such a long time since Sherlock had been in such close proximity to John Watson, the man whom he was proud to call his only friend. He had always taken him for granted. He wondered if maybe he could finally make his triumphant return. Moriarty was dead, and the people he was closest to were (for the most part,) safe.

"I miss you." Sherlock whispered to himself, a single tear falling down his cheek. John stirred a bit.

"I miss you too."

Sherlock had to smile. The movement felt strange on his face after such a long absence, but he welcomed the feeling. "How long have you known I was here?" He asked, cocking his head to the side. John turned to him and opened his eyes.

"A good twenty minutes, at least." John quipped. "You know, I really wish I wasn't all binded up, because you have no idea how hard I want to hit you right now. Where the hell did you go, Sherlock? Where have you been for a year?" he spat out. Sherlock swallowed and looked down.

"John, please, I-"

"No. Sherlock. No. What makes you think that after a year you can just barge back into my life? What the hell is wrong with you? I swear, I-"

"John!" Sherlock practically yelled at him. "Just listen to me now. Please. He was going to kill you. Moriarty had gunmen targeting you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade… if I hadn't jumped, he would've killed you all."

John started at him, his gaze penetrating. "And you say you don't have any friends."

Sherlock chuckled. "Well then, I suppose the great Sherlock Holmes was wrong."

John smiled at him, his eyes burning bright.

"Hey, John?" Sherlock asked, looking John in the eye.

"Yes?" John asked. He was surprised, but also quite pleased when Sherlock took his hand into his own.

"Never scare me like that again. If you promise not to die on me, I'll promise not to die again. Do we have a deal?"

John's eyes penetrated Sherlock's, his gaze never wavering. He squeezed his hand tighter and smiled. "You've got a deal."

Sherlock beamed and leaned forward, a bit awkwardly, to hug John. John greatly appreciated the sentiment, however he couldn't help but cry out in pain when Sherlock accidentally hit his side. "Sorry!" Sherlock cried, and quickly sat down on the edge of John's bed, slightly embarrassed. John laughed it off. "It's fine, really."

Sherlock apologized again; "No, that was stupid of me. You're obviously in a lot of pain."

John gave Sherlock "the look." (which can be commonly observed in elderly married couples.) "Sherlock, come here." He gestured towards himself, and Sherlock bent over. He was surprised when rather than being met by a sarcastic remark, he received a kiss upon his cheek. His face flushed red, and he felt an emotion he was not very familiar with, although it wasn't a particularly bad feeling. He looked at John in surprise, who simply smiled at him. "Will you stop apologizing now?" John asked. Sherlock nodded vigorously.

"So… we'll be returning to Baker Street soon, correct?" Sherlock inquired, to which John enthusiastically replied; "But of course. It'll be Sherlock and Watson in 221B, just as it should be."

**A/N: … So, yes. I feel like it got a lot weaker towards the end, however I am sick as a dog right now, and it is one o'clock in the morning, so I probably shouldn't have expected much from this. I just got the idea and had to write it down. Any advice on how to improve on would be greatly appreciated! **


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